Can't Shake This Feeling in My Bones
by brightraven14
Summary: She saw his distinctive platinum hair amidst the sea of bodies on the platform, almost insulted that he had the nerve to return to Hogwarts after what he had done. But at least that would mean he'd keep to himself this year, right? With Hogwarts being immensely overpopulated this year, they wouldn't even have to interact... Draco!Veela. Rated M for future chapters.
1. Prologue

**PROLOGUE  
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"Ron, I don't want to talk about this right now." Hermione sighed, wondering why she even tried to express her opinion anymore, when it hadn't had any results in the past. She should have just smiled and kissed him like he was expecting, and then she could have been packing her trunk in peace.

"Why, Mione? I just don't understand why you're acting this way! You should be proud of me for getting this job. Obviously they think that I would be so good for this position that they don't need me to finish my education. Clearly _my_ experience in battle was far more than sufficient to fulfil the requirements."

Hermione flinched. She hated when Ron tried to make it seem like she was always trying to be better than him. All she wanted to do was go back to Hogwarts and complete her final year, as she would have done if not for the maniacal psychopath who tried to kill them all. Despite knowing that she would have been competent at any of the jobs offered to her during the summer, she just did not feel that she had earned them. She wanted tangible proof of her intelligence, something that would show her future employer and co-workers that she had as much right to be there as any of the rest of them. In both the Muggle and the Wizarding Worlds, she had seen how those who did not have money or important connections, despite being equally or even more qualified than those who did, were not regularly offered as many opportunities. Hermione resented it. And yet she grudgingly accepted that, at her level, there wasn't much she could do to change the system. What she could do, however, was rebel in her own small way. She would not play into the system by relying on her newfound celebrity to achieve her aims. While she might have done some incredible things in the last few years, many of which were certainly not expected of a witch of her age, she wanted to have the same qualifications as every other person in her field. This also meant she wanted to start from the bottom, adding yet another thing to the list of choices that Ronald simply would not understand.

Ron felt that, by her turning down each and every one of her job offers and returning to Hogwarts, she was showing him that she did not believe he had earned his place as Assistant Head Security Wizard of the Department of Magical Games and Sports. And that was true, to an extent. Hermione did feel that he wasn't applying himself and living up to his true potential, and she certainly did not believe that he had earned a position many others with his credentials would have worked more than ten years to achieve. But Ron failed to recognise that she wasn't making her choice because she wanted him to feel inferior. If Ron could accept his position and feel fulfilled while doing it, then fine, she would let him. But that did not mean she could do the same.

"Never mind, Ron. And I am proud of your accomplishments. This is a perfect job for you." All of that was true. Ron's new job _was_ perfect for him. He would get to order people around (which she hoped would help him shake his "sidekick" mentality), he would not have to do much analytical or critical thinking, he didn't have much responsibility for his own actions, and he would get to interact with all of the Quidditch players, coaches, managers, agents, and groupies both off and on the pitch.

"Thank you for finally realising that. And I guess it's good you're going back to sit for your N.E.W.T.S.; it's not like you can rely on anything else to get yourself a job." Ron snickered and kissed her, snaking both hands around her waist to grab her bum while he forced his way into her mouth. She tried to move her body away from his hands, but she only succeeded in grinding herself slightly against him. "I love that I can make you squirm," Ron murmured before squeezing again. "You're getting a little better. Just make sure you practice on a mirror or something while you're at school. You're lucky I don't care about you being sexy or anything yet. I know! Just think of it as your homework assignment for me: Sensuality 101 or some shit like that." Ron laughed and snorted as he continued to nibble on her lips and squeeze her bum, all the while Hermione was beet red at the thought that Ron still didn't find her sexy at all, not to mention she was apparently incapable of even a simple kiss. She wanted to please him, but it was not as though she could get a teacher or read a book to learn as she normally did. She resolved that she would just have to try harder for Ron and, in the meantime, be thankful that she had a boyfriend who loved her in spite of not being particularly beautiful or sensual.

As she watched her boyfriend leave her and Ginny's shared room at the Burrow, she tossed another pair of sensible knee socks into her trunk and tried to excite herself with thoughts of the Hogwarts library, seeing Hagrid again, and most of all, that shiny new Head Girl badge nestled carefully in between her oxford's shirts…

* * *

><p>Some two hours away, residing in a house on an unplottable piece of Wiltshire land, this year's Hogwarts Head Boy was also struggling to finish packing. Yes, he had all of the essentials—all of his shirts, trousers, socks, shoes, robes, books, a few bottles of Ogden's Finest, and other school supplies were all neatly fitted into his trunk, yet the boy felt he would need something else this year for his main extracurricular activity. He just wasn't sure what it was.<p>

"Darling, staring at your trunk will not make it pack itself," the voice of his mother trilled from his doorway, "that is, of course, unless you perfected a wandless, non-verbal summoning spell while I was not looking?"

Narcissa slowly crossed the room to where he was standing, facing his trunk at the foot of his bed, and placed a gentle, elegant hand on his right shoulder. She really was quite beautiful, his mother. Meeting her eyes, he wondered if his future wife might look like her, but he quickly banished the thought from his mind for fear of developing an Oedipal complex. No, his future wife would look nothing like his mother, he decided.

"Take a deep breath." Narcissa soothed her only son with her peaceful voice. "You will be fine. I know it seems like a daunting task, but that is only because you have yet to find her. Once you do, your instincts will help you along."

"I don't even know where to begin looking, mother," Draco replied, sinking onto the edge of his bed, "she could be anywhere."

"Now we have been over this many times, Draco. The universe does not just decide one's mate at random; your dormant Veela has been with you for every interaction you have had over the entire course of your life, carefully considering every individual and searching for the one who would be your best match. Your mate is a woman you have already met, my dear, and since most of the girls you know currently attend Hogwarts, it is quite likely you will find her there." She lowered herself to her knees in front of her son, framing his face in her hands as she brought his gaze up from the floor. "I am not saying this will be easy, Merlin knows I made it quite difficult for your father," she stopped to laugh softly and look past his left shoulder as she recalled her own school days, "but I am sorry to say that there is nothing on this earth, no book or token, that you can take to make your task easier."

"Wonderful. Thanks for the help, mum." Draco grumbled, pushing off his bed to go scowl at the sunny gardens of the manor.

Narcissa raised herself back to her full height, quite tired of dealing with the broodiness inherent to all Malfoy men. "Oh Draco, do stop acting like a child," she exclaimed, her voice full of the power she demanded as a matriarch, "and stop glaring at my arnica plants—you're making them turn red."

He did as she bade, and focused his stormy gaze instead on a far-off patch of grass in the hopes of withering it without his mother noticing.

"It's about being brave, sweetheart. I know we Slytherins do not know the most about bravery, but from what I've learned, it does not mean that you have to banish all of your fears and charge head first into danger. That, I assume, is Gryffindor bravery, something you would be better off avoiding, in my opinion." Narcissa chuckled lightly, making her seem almost child-like and innocent. "This kind of bravery," she continued, "is about accepting that you and your mate are _meant_ for each other. This is about understanding that who you are is not a burden; it is a gift. You have been blessed with this chance to experience a love about which other witches and wizards can only dream. You are treating this as though you will have to persuade some woman who you had only seen for a fleeting moment to fall in love with you with no pretence. Firstly, your Veela would not have chosen your mate based on a half second of eye contact, and secondly, you are as much meant for her as she is for you."

Draco nodded, already aware that he was being excessively broody. But he was a Malfoy—being broody was his prerogative! In fact, he wasn't so worried about finding his mate or even who she would be. He trusted his Veela instincts enough to know he would be able to identify her eventually and, if she were indeed supposed to be his perfect match, whatever sort of opinions he had of her previously wouldn't really matter. What he was worried about was finding her and convincing her to complete the mate bond _in time_.

Ever since June, Draco not only had been coming to terms with the changes overcoming his body but also with the fact that he had to bind his mate to him before his next birthday. Because the idea of finding eternal love just wasn't stressful enough, was it? Of course it had to have a time limit, or else it just wouldn't be interesting.

If Draco failed to mate in the next nine months, the second he turned nineteen his brain would signal the release of a liquid that would neutralise the chemical in his body responsible for sealing his mate bond. However, the neutralisation process would not just prevent him from experiencing the legendary and eternal love of male Veelas. Ironically, this was the one instance in which his "pureblood" heritage was much more of a burden than an advantage. Due to the centuries of pureblood marriages both before and after the birth of the first male-Malfoy Veela—which inevitably allowed for a substantial amount of inbreeding—Draco's immune system was relatively weak. Essentially, if the chemical were to neutralise, his body would try to compensate for the disturbance in equilibrium by overproducing the main protein constituent of the chemical. However, those proteins would eventually come into contact with the original neutralising liquid to create a new chemical that would be, for all intents and purposes, harmless. That is, of course, unless his intents and purposes were to include his mate. His combination of human and Veela genetic material would cause this new chemical to be harmless to all _except_ the woman to whom he was fated. To her, it would be more deadly than a cap of Weedosoros potion. After his nineteenth birthday, he would have to avoid her at all costs, for even something as innocent as a kiss between them would subject her to a slow and painful death. Incidentally, Draco's problem was not something characteristic of all male Veela, but the result of one of his less intellectually gifted ancestors. No doubt his name was Cuntus or Cockupius or something else equally indicative of his immense ineptitude.

This ancient Malfoy had discovered his mate when he was eighteen, but the woman had many doubts about bonding herself to him for the rest of her life. Now, instead of giving her some time to come to terms with the idea or offering her a more platonic relationship as a way to get to know one another, he decided to try and alter his biology. As would be expected, messing with one's anatomy and internal systems is a tricky business in even the simplest of creatures. This is simply because no being's biology can be fully understood, so there is always a chance of triggering an unpredictable response. However, in creatures such as Draco and his ancestor, whose systems were a mix of human _and_ magical, there was next to no predictability in how their bodies would react to tampering. But the elder Malfoy decided to ignore the warnings, and proceeded with his plan. Since his mate did not want to bond with him immediately, he concocted a potion intended to stimulate the release of a neutralising liquid in his body. In this way, he could promise never to bond with her against her will, and they could simply marry instead when she was ready.

Months later, on the night before his nineteenth birthday, the ancient Malfoy and the woman wed in a small, private ceremony in France. When the new couple returned to their bedchambers and proceeded to consummate their marriage, the man's Veela instincts reawakened, propelling him to seal the mate bond in spite of his promise. The elder Malfoy was unaware of the fact that, when his Veela realised that an opportunity to reproduce had come about, it tried to stimulate an increased production of his mating chemical, as increased fertility was an additional result of being bonded. It was this stimulation that allowed for the first creation of his new toxin. In the early seconds of his twentieth year, he bit his new wife where her shoulder curved into her neck. Almost instantly, her body began twitch violently, and she let out a cry that sent the coldest and deepest sense of fear to his heart. The elder Malfoy panicked, and hoped to save her by completing the mate bond. He bit the other side of her neck with his teeth, believing that his Veela magic could counteract whatever chemistry was causing her such pain. However, this only served to seal her _fate_, and for the next three days her death was prolonged as a constant state of pain and terror. When she finally died, the ancient Malfoy, overcome with grief, cursed himself never to know real love with another woman. Adding yet another notch on the belt of his failures, the elder Malfoy's curse did not have its intended result. In fact, the curse itself was pointless, as the nature of male Veela prevents them from having any strong romantic feelings towards any woman apart from their mates. So even if his curse had been successful, it would not have achieved anything for him. However, what the curse did achieve was to make his biological alteration a dominantly inheritable trait. And so, from that moment on, every male Malfoy grew up with the knowledge that as soon as they turned eighteen and came into their birthright, they had exactly one year to seal their mate bonds.

In order to continue the Malfoy line, the ancient Malfoy's parents arranged a marriage for him with a wealthy, pureblooded witch from a neighbouring village. Together they lived loveless, lonely lives under the harsh parapets and bargeboards of the ancestral manor. The curse, he told his son, was a symbol of the consequences of grief, and would provide an incentive for him and all future Malfoy men to find their mates quickly, so they would never have to know the despair he had.

Draco, meanwhile, felt that his ancestor's justification was bullshit. It was something born out of guilt at having plagued all his descendants with a terrible burden in a moment of anguish. But now, because of Cuntus, he had barely over nine months to seal his mate bond with the woman meant to be his perfect match...but first he had to find her and convince her to give him a chance.


	2. Welcome Back

**Chapter 1:**

The platform was in chaos.

Everywhere she looked, evidence that the return to normalcy was beginning invaded the atmosphere at King's Cross Station. Parents of First Years stood tall and flicked their eyes around suspiciously, as though any minute now Voldemort would reappear and retake control of the world. Hermione was almost tempted to sneer; most of them hadn't fought in the war, justifying their actions because, being parents, they had too much to lose by declaring their loyalty. And now, they had the audacity and arrogance to think _they_ would protect their children if the Death Eaters suddenly broke out of Azkaban? _As if_, Hermione thought. Nothing had prevented families like the Weasleys from choosing a side, nor Lupin and Tonks, the Potters, the Longbottoms, or the entire Bones family. Certainly they had done as much as they could to keep their children out of danger, but they had also understood that certain risks would have to be taken to purge the world of its modern demons. And yes, all of them had lost loved ones. It was a terrible price to pay indeed, but it was because of the sacrifices of courageous people like them that these _new_ students were all safe and living apart from true fear and evil.

The First Years themselves, however, just looked like typical new students: nervous and excited, each trying to pick through the thick crowd to find another confused new kid with whom they could stand. The Second and Third Years looked bored and aloof, as if after one or two years of school suddenly they were all seasoned veterans responsible for putting the First Years in their place. The Fourth, Fifth, and Sixth Years, however, maintained a very different appearance. While the younger students had most likely been kept away from the reality of the Wizarding World at war, these older students were among those who had been evacuated from Hogwarts before the Final Battle. Many of them had older siblings or relatives who had fought, and it all contributed to a feeling that could only be likened to delusions of grandeur. The excitement, fear, and adrenaline they had all felt while hiding in their safe houses as the war waged on somehow made them believe that they had contributed just by existing at the right time. Of course, Hermione would not dare fault them for not fighting. After all, only a fraction of the oldest of them would have been sixteen when Harry returned to Hogwarts, and even that was much too young to be thrown into a full-fledged battle. But she resented their haughty attitudes, especially considering she knew how it felt to fight a war, to lose people, to lose yourself, and most of all, how it felt to exist in the aftermath. She saw this same knowledge on the faces and in the postures of many of the Seventh and "Eighth" Year students. Their faces were tired, but relieved—thankful to be coming back to something that they _should_ be doing at their age. Their bodies were somehow stuck between rigid and relaxed, as if they were primed to release a heavy breath of solace but were braced right at the point of exhalation, not quite ready to believe the danger had passed.

Ron and Harry weren't with her. Harry had volunteered to see her off, but she knew that the first day of his Auror training had started the previous day and would continue for the next six months. Undoubtedly he would have been tired beyond belief, not only from his work but from spending as much time as he could with Ginny before she left as well. Hermione had appreciated the sentiment immensely, but she didn't want to give him a disadvantage at training by stealing away what little sleep he could afford.

Ron hadn't made any such offer, but then Hermione hadn't expected him to. Apparently he had been called away on his first assignment: assisting in the removal of a particularly randy group of girls attempting to blast their way into Puddlemere United's team locker rooms to catch a glimpse of Oliver Wood. She actually hadn't heard from him since before he left, which was almost three days ago, except for a message he had supposedly relayed through Harry, telling him to tell her to "make sure she reads a lot and does her homework". She assumed that was his attempt at wit.

As she stood on the tips of her toes and craned her neck, hoping to find Ginny in the sea of mismatched robes, she caught sight of someone she certainly had not expected would return for his eighth year. Her eyes narrowed; even with his face hidden from her, the boy's platinum hair and proud stance gave him away. Without a doubt, Draco Malfoy would be joining her as one of the few students to come back and sit for his N.E.W.T.S. She just couldn't catch a break, could she? She should have known the war wasn't over yet. Even after all of the fighting and bloodshed, now she would have to go back to the insults against her parentage and questions of whether she was worthy to be a part of the Wizarding community. And even better, as Hermione noticed, it appeared Malfoy would not be the only prejudiced, Slytherin arsehole returning either. Blaise Zabini, Theo Nott, and Pansy Parkinson had all flocked to him and were now currently engaged in a conversation that, by the looks of it, seemed rather tense.

The Hogwarts Express whistled, and Malfoy turned his head towards the sound, allowing Hermione a perfect view of his profile. Well, he certainly wasn't a _boy_ anymore. The last time she had seen him his face was gaunt, with his eyes dull, sunken, and afraid, his cheeks hollow and the surrounding bones razor sharp, his lips pale and betraying no happy emotion. His frame had been equally as emaciated, and Hermione recalled thinking that, when she had seen him sat in the Great Hall after the battle, the smallest puff of wind could have knocked him right over. Of course, Hermione realised that three months couldn't possibly change his appearance that severely, but obviously the effects of two years of terror and pain on his body must have prevented her from noticing how much he had grown.

And he _had _grown. He was clearly over six feet, maybe even six-foot-five. He absolutely towered over Parkinson, who looked like a pixie in comparison. _Maybe a Cornish pixie_, Hermione thought with a small smirk. But more had changed about Malfoy than just his height. He had regained all of the weight that he'd lost over the last two years and then some, and he looked disproportionally bigger than he had in fifth year, the time when Hermione had last remembered him as looking healthy. Despite his confidence and swagger, Hermione had always thought he was a little scrawny. This perception was incredibly valuable to her in dealing with his constant abuse, as she chose to believe he was just overcompensating for not being as physically strong or built as other boys like Ron, or even Harry. But now…there was nothing to overcompensate _for_. He was still lean and trim, clearly not the sort to be bulky and horizontally imposing, but he looked strong, healthy, and ready. From her angle, she could tell that his face was still as sharp as ever, but it was fuller, and his skin, while still pale, now held the faintest rosy hue that had replaced the sickly, greenish undertones that had made him almost look like an Inferius.

There was something she could not quite identify about his expression. It was not one that she thought she had ever seen grace his features—there was a hint of his usual smugness and superior confidence, but it was a far cry from what she was used to seeing. And while his jumpiness at the train whistle betrayed his anxiety, it didn't dominate his attitude or his presence. She would have thought he would be much more nervous, or at least angry and standoffish at the thought of returning to a place filled with people who undoubtedly wanted him dead or imprisoned or both. And yet, he just seemed…contemplative. That was the only word Hermione could think of to describe him. There was a calm about him; something was monopolising on his thoughts so that any worries about the looks he was receiving or the whispers already starting to pass behind hands were having no effect on his countenance.

Suddenly, her view of Malfoy was obstructed by a tidal wave of red.

"Ginny!" She exclaimed as soon as she blinked and her eyes had refocused on the much nearer target. It was only then that she realised her eyes were stinging from having stared at Malfoy for so long. "I was wondering where you ran off to. Where've you been all this time?"

"Oh I just went to find Luna and nab a compartment," Ginny said as she pulled Hermione onto the train, "some little Fourth Year snot was going for it, but as soon as she saw me she just pulled the whole, '_Merlin's left saggy nut, you're Harry Potter's girlfriend, aren't you? Oh do tell me how dreamy he is, please! Does he buy you gifts and flowers? He's rich, isn't he? Oh you're so lucky to be with someone like him!_'" Her voice had increased at least an entire octave in pitch, and she had raised the back of her hand to her forehead and bowed her back in a mock swoon. "Like, hello, I've known you for two seconds and I already have a list of reasons why I detest you. And regardless, I don't tell just anyone about how dreamy Harry is."

"You tell me often enough," Hermione grumbled. Never had a truer statement been made. She was privy to way more than she needed to be about Harry's body, morning routine, romantic declarations, nervous tics, and most unpleasant of all, his technique. Harry was like a brother to her, and hearing about his adeptness at certain bedroom activities only made her want to scuttle into a ball under her bed, clamp a thick pillow over her ears, and hum some mind-numbing tune.

"That's because you're _you_!" She laughed and pulled open the door to their berth. Luna was already inside, not even looking up from her upside-down _Quibbler_ as they entered. "I mean honestly, Hermione, who else do I have to talk to about him?"

"Oh, I don't know," Hermione mocked, bringing her forefinger to her chin in imitation, "maybe Romilda Vane and both Patil twins and Cho Chang and any other girl who ever looked at Harry for half a second—"

"Oh come off it, I only did that once and only because we were all in the same room together. It was an opportunity I couldn't pass up!" Ginny defended, but her shoulders shook slightly in mirth, as she was clearly remembering the looks of shock on the girls' faces (shock and _envy_, in Romilda's case) at hearing her proclaim loudly and in detail to Hermione about a night when Harry had been quite interested being _unselfish_.

Hermione still had nightmares.

As the train signalled its last call for passengers with one long, resounding whistle, Hermione twisted so that her back was now against the compartment door and she was free to stretch her legs out along the seat. When Ginny turned to look out the window, Hermione inched her bum slightly away from the wall so she could just reach Ginny's thighs with her toes, and proceeded to aggressively knead them into the girl's leg. After Hermione had bought Crookshanks in third year, she picked up the habit of kneading her friends' thighs or stomachs when they weren't expecting it, usually resulting in an annoyed shriek from the receiver. Too bad Hermione thought it was hilarious, and always got a quick giggle out of it at their expense.

"Aaaghh!" Cried Ginny, recoiling as far as she could into the opposite corner and pulling her knees up to her chest. "Why do always do that to me?"

Hermione only giggled harder, and stretched so she could continue her task. "I'm only trying to show you how much I care!" Hermione wheezed out between laughs.

She would never admit it to anyone, not even Ginny, but ever since her unfortunate Polyjuice mishap in second year, she had noticed that several of her tendencies were decidedly feline. Deciding that her friends already thought her weird enough for it, she kept them a secret and instead used her powers for good by annoying them at every opportunity.

Ginny, meanwhile, was hardly amused, and quickly jumped up and across the compartment to sit next to Luna, narrowly avoiding Hermione's toes as they attempted to follow her quick movements.

The next few hours or so passed quickly, with the girls alternating between giggling about various points of gossip, predicting changes in the upcoming term, reminiscing about their previous years, and just watching the blurred colours of the countryside fly past. At some point, Luna had finished her _Quibbler_ and, blinking to refocus her eyes, had asked, "Oh, hello, Hermione. When did you get here?"

Hermione had only smiled and shook her head, while Ginny had snickered slightly at the oblivious nature of their friend. All too soon, however, Hermione checked her watch and noticed that the time had come for her to start performing her Head duties. Flicking her wand, she lowered the shade to cover the glass portion of their compartment door, and began to change into her robes. It was a surreal but strangely calming experience, donning her uniform for the first time in over a year. The slight itchiness of her school skirt on her bare thighs and the way her knee socks slowly slipped down her legs seemed like such trifling complaints now, and she felt a small kind of happiness at the thought that these would be her main annoyances this year. She straightened up from fastening her shoes and carefully pinned her Head Girl Badge to her robes.

Bidding the other girls goodbye, she exited the berth and made her way to the prefect's carriage near the front of the train. In the letter from Professor McGonagall during the summer, she had congratulated Hermione on her academic achievements and outstanding reputation as a student, and informed her that it was because of these accomplishments that she had been selected as Head Girl. However, the Headmistress had not revealed the name of her male counterpart, only saying that at four o'clock she was to meet him in the prefect's carriage and discuss how they would delegate various tasks. She would have been lying if she claimed she was not curious as to who had been chosen; in fact as she made her way down the corridor, she was simultaneously greeting her classmates and trying to remember if any of them had attained a degree of academic prestige.

There were only a handful of boys with grades that rivalled hers, and only a fraction of that handful weren't lonely recluses who only ventured out of their rooms to eat and attend classes. Come to think of it, Ernie McMillan, Justin Flinch-Fletchley, Michael Corner, and Anthony Goldstein were the only boys she believed could have been offered the position. Certainly, there were several Gryffindor boys with strong leadership skills, just as there were several Slytherin boys with nearly flawless academic records, but she didn't expect a student from either of those houses to be chosen. Each group just lacked what the other possessed. But honestly, none of the candidates were particularly appealing prospects. Justin and Anthony were nice enough, but Justin was somewhat naïve and cowardly and Anthony was just dull. Ernie was a half-step down from the other two boys in terms of appeal, mostly because he was incredibly pompous, ostentatious, and presumptuous. He had always been so quick to slander Harry in their earlier years whenever a new rumour began to circulate, only to renounce his beliefs and plead for forgiveness when he was proved wrong. But Michael would definitely be the worst. To be fair, most of Hermione's opinion of Michael had been born out of what Ginny had told her, but as of yet she had no reason to think differently of him. He was a slimy creep with a cantankerous personality, and most of everything he said was a guaranteed conversation stopper. He was always very vocal with his observations of people and Hermione had often found him watching her in classes or on the school grounds, which all contributed to her feeling generally uncomfortable around him.

She decided that Anthony would probably be the best of the bunch. Despite not being particularly interesting, he didn't seem to have any real annoying tendencies. And he seemed like the type that would be clean, as well, which was a definite advantage. As she would have to share a dorm (and probably a bathroom) with the Head Boy, she was almost tempted to say that cleanliness would matter more to her than any other character shortcomings he might have.

Just as she was about to weigh the levels of unpleasantness of a messy and unhygienic Anthony against an immaculately tidy and well-groomed Michael, she arrived at the door to the train's second carriage, behind which the elusive Head Boy was probably waiting.

She was suddenly nervous, and hesitated before pushing the divider aside. What if her partner had been similarly going through options for Head Girls? If so, where did she rank on his list of most appealing candidates? She liked to think she was personable and easy to work with, but she also knew that many people found her bossy and stuck up. The Head Boy was probably hoping for someone like Padma Patil or Hannah Abbot to be his partner, a girl who everyone agreed was smart, friendly, funny, and undeniably pretty. Padma and Hannah could roll out of bed, be wearing the most atrocious hand-me-down jumper and no makeup, and probably be ill at the same time and somehow still achieve the kind of natural beauty that simply radiated from within and made everyone around them happier just for seeing it.

Hermione knew she was nowhere near as beautiful as those other witches. She'd thought she'd looked nice for the Yule Ball in fourth year, and Bill and Fleurs' wedding two summers past, but it had taken hours to tame her hair and do her face, and the result had been just that—_nice_. On both occasions she still felt she had been outshone by girls like Fleur, Ginny, and Parkinson, who had all looked as though they'd just walked off some elite runway in Paris or Milan. Still, Ron must find her attractive enough, or else he would not have chosen to date her. She must at least be _average_-looking. And yet, she had always been troubled by the thought that he had never looked at her as if he was lost in her beauty, like the way he'd gawked at the Bulgarian Veela at the Quidditch World Cup. But then, she wasn't exactly a Bulgarian Veela, was she?

_Well_, she thought, as she shook herself slightly and reached for the divider handle, _there's nothing I can do about it now. Whoever has to live with me will just have to get over it_.

She squared her shoulders and pulled the door open, but as soon as she stepped into the carriage she realised all her worries had been for naught.

The Head Boy wasn't even here yet; only Malfoy, Parkinson, and some other prefects were scattered around, waiting for the Heads to arrive so the meeting could begin. Hermione was quite shocked that Malfoy had retained his prefect position in spite of not only attempting to aid in the extermination of Muggles and Muggle-borns, but also the fact that he and Parkinson had abused their positions immensely in previous years. They were always ready to deduct points from Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs, even when they had done nothing wrong, and were exceedingly harsh on First Years, usually by giving them detentions with Snape or Filch or Umbridge or some other odious staff member.

Well, maybe McGonagall thought keeping him a prefect would help make sure some of the more unruly Slytherins stayed in line. She could live with that, she decided. And besides, she would have authority over him anyway, so if he reverted back to his old habits she could give him a nasty detention with Hagrid or something.

She sat down and retrieved her letter from McGonagall from her pocket. The letter detailed most of the topics she would have to cover at this meeting, but had been hoping to go over them with the Head Boy before it started. She glanced at her watch again—it was already ten to four and he wasn't even here yet!

Just as she was about to throw her eyes anxiously at the door, a cool voice froze her in place.

"Granger," said Malfoy as he took the seat opposite her.

"Malfoy," she replied, unsure of his motives but deciding to be civil, "I guess I should congratulate you on your Prefect appointment."

"And I should congratulate you, to be sure…but I'm not exactly a Prefect."

Oh, well then maybe McGonagall hadn't been as generous as she had believed. Well, that was perfect, then. She would have even more authority over Malfoy than she thought she would. But then what was he doing in the Prefect's carriage when a meeting was about to commence? Was he just talking to Parkinson or was he—

_Oh_. _Oh no._ Malfoy had pulled one part of his robes—which were unclasped at the front and had been hanging at his sides—to the front of his body so that his Head Boy badge was now clearly visible.

No. _No_. No no no no no. Give her back the messy, unhygienic, slimy Michael Corner! They would be best friends!

She was sure her lower jaw had unhinged itself and had clattered onto the table between them. Prefect, she could understand…maybe, but _Head Boy_? Had McGonagall lost her mind? She seriously trusted Malfoy, the self-proclaimed despiser of Muggle-borns and attempted murderer of Dumbledore to work well with her and _live_ with her for the remainder of the school year? They would kill each other!

She came back to the present when Malfoy reached over to push her jaw back into place. She gaped at him; did he just willingly touch her? He, a boy who felt he needed to burn any article of clothing that touched the same _air_ as a Muggle-born, just touched her _bare_ skin with his _bare_ hand? What was the world coming to? And was his skin always that warm and soft?

He had an indulgent, almost boyish expression on his face, one that was somewhat mocking and mischievous but totally devoid of malice. One eyebrow was quirked slightly, matching the angle of his mouth, which was turned up in a half smirk that at once both laughed at her disbelief and showed pride at his continued ability to shock her. His grey eyes, which she had always thought looked chilly and severe, were light and jovial. She was stunned at how the absence of anger, stress, and hate completely changed his face.

He almost looked…_nice._

But that was impossible. This boy…man…person hated her. Maybe he had progressed to the level wherein he longer wished for her immediate annihilation, but she knew for a fact that he disliked her for many reasons in addition to her blood status.

And she hated him for reasons unrelated to him wanting her dead for the past seven years! He was a cruel, self-serving _boy _who took credit for other people's achievements, abused every privilege given to him, and—word had it—had a nasty reputation for tossing witches over after he had lured them to his bed. And he cheated at Quidditch, for Merlin's sake! Granted, almost everyone cheated at Quidditch, but that did not make it right!

"So were you planning on just improvising, Granger? Or did it cross your mind that we should go over some things before this meeting starts?" Malfoy jeered, that annoying smirk still in place.

Ah, there was the Malfoy she knew and hated. He was clearly out of practice, as that remark was not nearly as hurtful as she had been anticipating, but she had full confidence that his jabs would be up to snuff before long. She huffed, retrieving a long piece of parchment she'd drawn up the previous day and handing it across the table. The parchment detailed the weekly patrol assignments, First-Year orientation, Hogsmeade visits, tasks for the upcoming ball, and other miscellaneous duties for the Prefects.

Much to her agitation, Malfoy immediately pulled out a quill and an inkbottle and began marking up her plans, making him seem as though he was a professor making edits to an essay.

"I'm sorry," Hermione blustered, "but what the hell are you doing?"

"Just making a few changes," Malfoy replied dismissively.

"Care to enlighten me?"

Malfoy did not respond immediately, choosing instead to continue alternating between scratching and scribbling. After about a minute, he recapped his inkbottle, rested his quill, and took his time reviewing his changes before returning the parchment to her.

"All I did was rearrange a few of the patrol pairings," he began, "as it seems to have missed your notice, you can't pair McDonald and Peakes with each other; they had a nasty fallout after he briefly turned her cat into a pumpkin two years ago, and she's still mad. Branstone and Quirke have rival parents in the experimental potions department at the Ministry, Harper practically stalks Pansy, so they probably shouldn't be alone in dark corridors together, and Abbot and McMillan have been on and off for the last few years, and if her sitting on his lap in the corner gives us any kind of indication, now is an "on" period. We actually want Prefects to _patrol_ on their patrols, don't we?"

Hermione grumbled, angrily conceding to the fact that he was clearly more attuned to gossip than she. She tilted her head in acknowledgement, but noticed that he had marked other parts of her plans as well.

"And what about the other changes, might I ask?" She twittered.

"Well, although you seem to have thought out every possible duty for preparing for the ball, you assigned people who would be generally shite at certain jobs. I think even _we_ can agree that Goldstein could win against Binns in a duel of insipidity, with Madley coming in a close third. Probably best that they're not assigned to decorations, yeah? And Ackerley and Robins, despite being academically all there, aren't the best examples of bulk and brawn. So I moved them to setup and teardown from Fifth Year security. Personally, I recommend Cauldwell and Baddock as replacements—both beaters."

She hated to admit it, but he was undoubtedly correct. She had always made an effort to get to know the Prefects, even in spite of the Slytherins not being particularly accommodating, but she had not yet got the chance to know many of the Fifth Years. She wasn't exactly sure how Malfoy had bested her on that front, but maybe he was just generally more perceptive than her. But she had known that Anthony would probably be awful at decorating, but she hadn't really known where else to put him. She just expected that, had he been Head Boy, he would have assumed a more supervisor-type role instead. Malfoy had placed him as Padma's partner as the liaisons to the various outside businesses that would be supplying drinks, music, and games to the festivities. Honestly, she was less upset that Malfoy had thought of it than she was at the fact that _she _hadn't thought of it at all.

She rolled her left shoulder once, cringing internally at her own pettiness. Sometimes she forgot that the reason why there were two Head students was not just due to the need for equal representation of the sexes. She was not all-powerful, she could not direct all the Prefects on her own, and given the past few minutes, there were gaps in her skill sets—gaps that Draco Malfoy seemed highly capable of filling.

And maybe she wasn't giving him enough credit. Yes, he made the foolish decision to eat up all his father's words and follow a lunatic, and yes he had always acted like a complete dickhead towards her, but she shouldn't try to belittle his abilities. He had become a strong wizard, and if they managed _not_ to kill each other, he could be a strong ally.

Then and there, Hermione decided to commit. No matter what Malfoy would say or do, _she _would not be pushed over, aside, or under. She would show everyone not only why she was the called the _brains_ behind the Golden Trio, but also that she had the practical skill and leadership abilities to show for it. She would prove to everyone that she deserved her Head Girl Badge, and she wasn't just Harry Potter's friend, or Ron Weasley's girlfriend.

"Well if that's all," Hermione said, her face even in spite of his infuriatingly nonchalant nod, "then let's get this show on the road."

She was Hermione _fucking_ Granger, the brightest witch of her age, and no one, not even Malfoy, would strip her of that title.

* * *

><p>He was totally off his game.<p>

He hadn't seemed to have any trouble taunting some Second Year Puffies earlier as they scrambled for a compartment, so why was he struggling so much now?

As he had waited for Granger to show up in the Prefect's carriage (Pansy had thought that the smarter Patil twin would be Head Girl, but as Granger had practically licked McGonagall's asshole throughout school, Draco had little doubt she would be given the position) he'd been contemplating what it would be like to live with her for the whole year. Intolerable, he guessed. True, he no longer ascribed to pureblood beliefs, but that didn't mean she was any less of a snobbish swot.

Well, at least he would be in for some entertainment. Nothing was truly more enjoyable than watching the blood rush to her cheeks and ears or seeing her hair practically crackle with energy after one of his more polemic comments. He didn't even believe most of what he preached, but it was just too much fun to watch her work herself up.

When she had entered the carriage, he seemed to know she was there before he even saw her. As she pulled the door aside, a rush of cooler air had entered the space, and the faintest squirming feeling began in his lower back. However, he brushed it off as a kind of shiver when he noticed the hairs that had risen on his arms. When he had finally turned to look at her, what he saw was nothing like what he had been expecting. She still retained that look about her that just _screamed _holier-than-thou, but she looked…tired. There was some anxiety about her, evident from her staggered gait, but mostly, to Draco's surprise, she looked _bored_. Since when was Granger bored? For Merlin's sake, the rotted pits of dirigible plums could probably hold her interest for at least an hour, so why did she look so blasé when she literally held the most interesting student position at Hogwarts?

And she looked skinny, too. Well, she had always seemed fit and trim, so it wasn't as if she'd gone from obese to thin over the course of a summer. But she'd always had some meat and muscle on her, whereas now he could easily picture all of her small bones breaking under the weight of her brain.

Her hair was still as wild as ever, and yet there seemed to be some order to the madness of her mane. While it was still a huge mass of curls, it looked decidedly less mop-like, and gone was the frizz that had plagued her throughout their formative years. It seemed like she had finally found a conditioner that worked.

He shook himself out of his momentary insanity at having been inspecting her hair when he recognised that, since both of them were now in attendance, they should probably start preparing for the upcoming Prefect meeting. A new feeling of elatedness rushed through him when he realised that Granger probably didn't expect him to be her partner for the rest of the year, and he would likely spend the next few minutes revelling in her astonishment at his appointment. Honestly, he wasn't totally sure why he'd been chosen, either, though he had a hunch. The old bat had said something about "rebuilding bridges" and understanding that due to his age, he could not be held completely accountable for his more injudicious actions. But that was complete hippogriff shit, and both him and McGonagall surely knew it. Draco had known exactly what he was doing every damned step of the way; there was just no other option for him. Maybe he could have gotten Dumbledore's help and protection in sixth year, and maybe he could have gone to the Order before it was too late—but neither of those options offered a guarantee for his parents. Draco had known that if the Dark Lord had found out about his disloyalty, his mother, quickly followed by his father, would have been the first to go. He didn't care what people called him, or how hard life would be for him once he left school, as long as he knew that he had chosen the path that would have best protected his parents.

He couldn't be completely sure, but he was somewhat convinced that McGonagall had chosen him so that the children of the convicted Death Eaters would feel like they had an ally at the school. But Draco knew that he would be watched every minute of every day, and he'd be completely under the thumb of his Headmistress. It all sounded very sadomasochistic.

_Oh fuck, bad image, bad image_, Draco thought as a disgusted shudder passed through him.

Academically and socially, however, he completely understood why he had been chosen. He knew he was arrogant, because all Malfoys were arrogant, and it was genetic. But he didn't believe that calling attention to one's more favourable attributes was synonymous with arrogance. He was an intelligent, skilled wizard who knew how to get his way, and he had _presence_. He'd learned from his father how to control a room without uttering a single syllable, and he knew how to read people. _Malfoys are born to lead_, his father always told him. Lucius often expanded on his idiom, saying that being a leader did not always mean being the most vocal or forceful, even though both were useful qualities on occasion. Being a leader meant commanding respect, and respect was achieved by demonstrating power, resourcefulness, and, of course, success. Draco had always attained a certain level of respect, given to him simply because of his surname. However, he'd spent the last seven years trying to prove himself and earn the kind of respect his father had garnered. He'd lost a modicum of it by being on the wrong side in the war, but he'd get it all back this year, without a doubt. And what's more, he'd get it _honestly._ If he managed to gain respect without being excessively underhanded and dastardly, no one would be able to fault him on it. He wouldn't have to resort to being _nice_, or anything else equally drastic. No, he could still retain his supercilious and proud personality, but he just wouldn't be as conniving and blatantly cruel as he had been in previous years.

Draco would be the first to admit that honesty was not a concept with which many Malfoys were familiar, and he was not exactly an exception. But he resolved to learn, and who knew? Maybe Granger could help him on that.

Rising from his seat next to Pansy and Theo—who had replaced Draco in their sixth year and managed to retain his Prefect status—he straightened, brushed the imaginary wrinkles out of his robes, and strutted over to where Granger was seated across the carriage.

After he had sat down and the news of his Head Boy status had broken, he had expected a blind rage to erupt from her. Although he didn't receive his desired reaction, he had been satisfied by her clearly shocked expression and by the separation between her upper and lower jaws.

_Well that's different_, he thought, as his eyes shifted to her mouth. She had perfect teeth. He remembered making fun of her in their fourth year for her large front teeth, but he'd never actually noticed that they'd been fixed. The rest of her teeth were completely straight, and they were the kind of white that showed real hygiene as opposed to magical or Muggle procedures. There were many girls (and a few blokes, as well) in Slytherin who used teeth-whitening charms so frequently that their choppers were practically fluorescent. Draco always made sure to avoid happy or droll topics around those choice few, for fear of being blinded by their glaring smiles.

Now that he thought about it, he didn't think he'd ever been this close to Granger before. And it seemed like her perfect teeth were among several features he had never noticed about her. From a distance, one would be quick to call her definitively average, with her long brown hair and brown eyes and light skin and normal height and build. But now that he really _looked_ at her, there wasn't an average thing about her. Her hair and eyes weren't just _brown_. With the sun from the train window shining down on her, he could see some bits of red and lighter browns mixed into her wild tresses. And her eyes were more hazel than brown, with these little golden flecks floating around her irises. They reminded him of a small perfume bottle his father had given his mother once for an anniversary. It had been more for show than for practical use, but he had always found something mesmerizing about it. He had never smelled the perfume inside, though he expected it would be a custom soft, clean scent with a hint of floral and slight tang, if he knew his mother's tastes. As a child, he used to sit at his mother's vanity and admire it, occasionally raising and turning it gently, watching the small flakes of pure-gold foil swirl around in the colourless liquid.

He blinked, realising that he had been staring at her for far too long, and hoped she had not yet noticed. But he saw that she was still staring at him as well, with her mouth still agape, and a strong glint of tenacity forming in her gaze.

_Her mouth_. That sneaky feature that had triggered all his ridiculous thoughts. He could still see her perfect teeth, and the rosy pink, full bottom lip that looked like she had been nibbling on it before she arrived…

Okay, he had snap out of this. She had to stop gaping at him, because whenever his eyes shifted down to her teeth, a whole new flood of thoughts about her understated beauty hit him. Why wouldn't she close her mouth? Didn't she know how much she was taunting him?

Well if she wouldn't do it, he would. Before he could stop himself, he reached across the table between them and lifted her jaw back into place with two of his fingers. Something twinged in his back again, and he subtly sucked in his stomach a few times in an attempt to shake the tickling, buzzing sensation. He snatched his hand back, not quite believing he had actually just touched her. At least it meant he could start focusing on how much of a bossy snit he knew she was.

She seemed to startle herself out of her thoughts, though he could practically see the gears turning in her head and hear the steam whistling from her ears. He needed to say something, something that would jar them both back to how they normally acted around each other. He didn't want to be cruel and hurtful, like his normal mode of operation, since he was following his new diet of _honesty_ or whatever and he needed her not to hate him. What came out was decidedly unimpressive, but he felt it achieved its purpose to a certain extent. They needed their usual rapport, because despite their clashing personalities, he understood that they had the potential to work well together. If the three feet of parchment she was handing him was any sort of clue, she was well organised and knew how to plan. He had no doubts about her intelligence; his enduring status as second best in their year told him enough. And in addition, though he would never admit it aloud, they shared many of the same values. She wasn't the type to give up once she had committed to a task, so Draco knew that if she dedicated herself to surviving this year with him, and doing so productively, they would be brilliant.

They just had reign in their obstinacy and resist the urge to rise to each other's bait. Not exactly an easy undertaking.

Sweet Circe, he was beginning to sound like a sap. As he began to read over her plans for the Prefect meeting, he was loath to admit that she had thought of almost everything. He had been planning to surprise her with his own parchment of equal length and detail, but he decided he would just create an amalgamation of the two by altering hers slightly. True, she had thought of all the necessary tasks and assignments for the upcoming months, and he grudgingly admitted that her list was more thorough than his, but he noticed she had failed to consider certain relationships when pairing people together. Well, this was the perfect opportunity to showcase his talents of observation and people reading.

And it worked perfectly. Granger was clearly impressed by skills, though it was clear that she tried to hide it behind a mask of indignation.

When the plans had been perfected (and Granger had been thoroughly irked by his unassuming adeptness at Head Boy-ing), the pair rose from their table and moved to join the congregation of Prefects. The Fifth and Sixth Years were already an annoying bunch, with most of them flicking their eyes between each other before settling their haughty gazes on him. They blinked lazily at him, their postures excessively relaxed and nearly supine on the seats, as if they felt the need to demonstrate how little they respected his authority. Draco did not blame them for wanting him to feel inferior; hell, he'd been on the giving end of that feeling for the past seven years, so he felt he could empathise.

However, they were going about it much too obviously. And even if they wanted to make him feel like he had no power over them, it would accomplish little, as he _did_, in fact, have power over them. If they continued to pull stunts like this, he would just ensure that they were assigned to patrol the halls that Peeves most often frequented.

Karma was a bitch, and no one knew that better than Draco.

To his surprise, however, Granger cleared her throat as she came up next to him, and when he turned his head slightly to look at her, she was fixing the Prefects with a stern glare. It wasn't so much menacing—as it would have been if Pansy had been made Head Girl (Merlin forbid)—but it was demanding and promised a swift retribution at the smallest signs of disobedience or intransigence. Draco thought she looked like a younger version of McGonagall.

Much to his displeasure, the thought of McGonagall triggered the resurgence of the frightfully disturbing mental image of her as a dominatrix, and he struggled to supress a shudder and force down the bile that had risen in his throat.

Despite their rather shaky introduction to each other, he and Granger managed to lead the Prefect meeting rather adeptly. The snooty younger ones quickly snapped to attention the minute Granger had pursed her lips and raised one eyebrow at the group, their lazy postures quickly converting to hunched under her intimidating gaze. Draco felt no jealousy at her ability to command the group, as he was confident he'd rise to her level before too long. In fact, a small part of him was impressed (and a little grateful) that she didn't use their distrust of him as a way to establish her supreme authority. He guessed that the possibility hadn't ever crossed her mind, which only confirmed her status as a Gryffindor do-gooder. If that opportunity had been presented to him, he would have snatched it up without hesitation—or at least, he _would_ have done, before he decided to become honest.

Surprisingly, Granger seemed intent on coming off as a united front. She afforded him an equal amount of time to dictate rules and explain the allocated duties, and didn't seem too overly incensed when he amended one of her statements. On the whole, she was the image of professionalism, and it was impressive given her previously blatant objection to him as her partner.

When the train arrived at Hogsmeade Station, the two Heads quickly answered the few remaining questions and sent the Prefects to usher the rest of the students to the carriages. Granger spared him a quick glance before gathering her things and rushing to the exit, her back ramrod straight and her chin raised. Draco smirked; she certainly would be no pushover. Not that he had expected her to be, but she had been sure to cement the fact that there would be no chance of him exerting any extra power over her. It was all vastly unnecessary, and he had accepted his badge with the expectation that he would take the lesser stance of the two if Granger had demanded it. As it happened, he was definitely surprised that she seemed to want them to be equal in their partnership. Well, perhaps it was all for show, and as soon as she got him alone she would hold him at wandpoint and demand his submission. _Sneaky minx_, he thought as his mouth twitched slightly at the corner. It would be a decidedly Slytherin move, to make everyone think they were equals, when really he would be a quivering lump completely under her command.

The thought made him scoff; he would accept her authority over him, but he would never _quiver_. He would consent to his position with all the grace of a Malfoy heir—indifferent to the end.

The carriage ride and subsequent sorting passed without incident, though the latter took marginally longer than usual. This year's class of First Years was nearly double its typical size, as many parents chose to keep their children at home the previous year instead of sending them to a Hogwarts under Voldemort's control. As such, roughly half of the students were a year older than the rest, and many would probably be more advanced from being home-schooled.

After he had entered the Great Hall, he had perused the Slytherin table in search of his friends. Quickly taking sight of Pansy's short, black hair next to Blaise's dark, shaven head, he strode over to the table and perched across from the two, sitting himself down next to Theo. After the sorting and a tediously long speech from McGonagall, which detailed the trials of the past four years, the sacrifices of their peers (at which point Draco noticed Granger rubbing the back of the Weasley girl, who was trembling slightly), and her hope for the upcoming term, the food of the welcoming feast finally appeared in front of them and the heavy buzz of chatter began to fill the hall. Draco himself was starved, as he had missed the trolley during the train ride in favour of getting to the Prefect's carriage earlier than Granger.

"You going to chew that, Draco?" Blaise snickered at him, bringing his own fork of mashed potatoes to his lips and swallowing after a few seconds.

Draco just ignored him and continued to scarf down his turkey. Since his early breakfast with his parents, the only thing he'd had to eat that day was a paltry handful of Bertie Bott's, and a generous portion of that handful had been either liver, earwax, or tripe-flavoured. He couldn't quite bring himself to care that his mother would have smacked him at the sight of his table manners; he was a growing boy and he needed his meat!

"Do try not to swallow the bones this time," chimed Pansy, who was daintily slicing an asparagus spear, "wouldn't want a repeat of the Boxing Day luncheon."

"Do try not to fling yourself off the Astronomy Tower," Draco quipped back, "wouldn't want to fulfil my deepest fantasies."

"Oh I'm sure Fourth-Year Draco would have something _very_ different to say about his fantasies concerning me," Pansy smirked devilishly at him from beneath her long lashes.

Theo coughed beside him, and Draco turned to slap him on the back just a little harder than necessary.

A teeny tiny, infinitesimally small part of Draco wanted to laugh along at his friend's antics, despite the fact that they were aimed at him, but he managed to repress the urge and forced a scowl on his face instead. Pansy's jibe had been a point of frequent mockery for Draco, stemming from one night—_one _night—in their fourth year when he had had a particularly…detailed dream involving Pansy, the Quidditch bleachers, and a liquorice wand. Unfortunately that night happened to be the _one_ time his subconscious self had felt the need to broadcast his latent desires by making him talk in his sleep, whereby Blaise and Theo, who had been sleeping in the neighbouring beds, awoke and heard all about them. They had wasted no time in divulging the specifics (involving Draco's little problem when the dream had ended) to Pansy the following morning over breakfast, and ever since the three of them had never let Draco live it down. It didn't seem to matter that he and Pansy _had_ actually dated occasionally since then, or that both of them had stories that were equally if not more embarrassing than that of Draco's dream. On the contrary, the tale of his horrific night in their fourth year would forever be, to Draco's total mortification, the one that would never grow old or tiresome.

And yet, the resurgence of the story comforted him just slightly, as it made him feel like this year might not be so terribly different from the others. It had become almost like an unspoken tradition for one of his three friends to find a way to mention the incident at some point during the first feast. Even during his sixth year, when he had trudged into the Great Hall with the weight of Voldemort's mission resting on his shoulders, his spirit had been momentarily lightened when Theo had subtly woven the topic into the conversation. Draco had been allowed to spend a few minutes pretending that he like was any other sixteen-year-old magical student grumbling at the larks of his mates.

Draco re-joined the discussion when he heard Blaise talk about plans for the upcoming weekend. It was a Tuesday, which was crap because it meant everyone's schedules would be altered to accommodate for the loss of two days. Admittedly, the first week of school was always crap unless it started on a Friday or a weekend day, because the rearranging of classes always resulted in terribly crammed first days. But the three-day-week schedule was undoubtedly the worst of the bunch. He would have double periods of each class spread over the next two days, with each block being an hour and a half instead of two hours, and then all eight of his classes would meet on Friday for forty-five minutes each, instead of the usual hour. Draco didn't know why the professors still clung to this method, since they all seemed to hate it just as much as the students. Plus it just meant that there wouldn't be a single free period anywhere in his schedule (disregarding lunch), and coupled with the follow-up Prefect meeting on Friday, his patrol with Granger on Saturday, Quidditch practice on Thursday, and a meeting with his pre-graduation advisor during lunch the following day…he was going to be a walking corpse.

The only positive outcome of the three-day-week schedule was that it almost always resulted in better weekend activities. The older Slytherin students always held a party on the first weekend as a celebration of the new school term, but whenever it followed such a hellish week, the need to let loose was sated by an exceedingly generous provision of various liquids. As he mentally recounted his upcoming week's schedule, Draco knew that the party would be nothing if not necessary.

"So any chance we could use your common room, mate?" Theo asked him. "I mean, we can use ours if you can't, like we always have done, but if we do we run the risk of old Sluggy popping down to join in."

In his peripheral, Draco noticed Pansy grimace, and he smirked slightly at the memory of Professor Slughorn coming down to the Slytherin common room during the party in their sixth year, whereupon he proceeded to get properly sloshed and trailed after Pansy for the rest of the night.

"I don't know…if what I've heard about the Head dorms is correct, Granger and I'll be sharing a common room. I'd have to ask her." That wasn't exactly a conversation he was looking forward to, as Granger was bound to jump on her high horse and reprimand him for encouraging irresponsible behaviour or something like that. But if she'd be willing to clear out and the Slytherins would get a private common room for a night, the party would reach legendary heights.

"Brilliant, thanks," Theo replied, clapping him on the shoulder, "so Friday night sound good?"

"Actually, we should do Saturday," Draco interjected, an idea forming in his head, "I'll still have to ask her, but if we have it on Saturday night Granger and I will have patrols, and she might just want to stay in the Gryffindor dorms afterwards instead of going all the way back to ours. Plus with the Prefect meeting on Friday night we'd be leaving Blaise with most of the setup."

"Oh you're so considerate, thank you Drakie!" Blaise half-squealed and reached across the table to pinch him on the cheek. Draco quickly slapped away his hand, but not before Blaise had got an adequate handful.

After all the food had been vanished from the tables and the Headmistress had imparted a final anecdote, the students slowly began to empty out of the Great Hall, eventually separating as each house made their way to their respective common rooms. Draco bid goodbye to his friends after making sure Theo saved him a seat in Arithmancy the next morning, and he made his way towards the head table to wait for Granger and McGonagall.

As many Head students opted to invite their friends back to their common rooms, and thus reveal the whereabouts of said common room, the location of the Head dorms was changed every year to maintain a level of privacy. Because of this, neither he nor Granger knew where to go after the feast, so they had been instructed to stay behind and wait for the Headmistress to lead them to their dorms.

When he reached the head table and saw Granger already waiting for him, the reality of his situation suddenly hit him full force. He would actually be _living_ with Granger for the next nine months. As in, hers would be the first and last face he would see every day, and they would be sleeping within twenty or so feet from each other every night. The thought was not a comforting one, especially given how much she despised him. And what if she invited Weasley in as well? Draco had read in the _Prophet_ that she and him had gotten together after the war, and he didn't relish the thought of being lulled to sleep by the dulcet tones of Weasel sex. His stomach folded in on itself at the thought, which was an awful feeling given he'd filled it to bursting during the feast.

"Ah Mister Malfoy there you are." McGonagall trilled as she descended the few short steps from the head table. "Now before I take you to your quarters it is incumbent upon me to mention that the bestowment of a private dormitory is a privilege, not a right. If you abuse it, you will be returned to your old rooms. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Professor," both he and Granger replied immediately. He wasn't quite sure if hosting a substance-inclusive party in the dorms four days into term constituted abuse of their privilege, but he just hoped Granger wouldn't think so.

No words passed between the two Heads as they followed their Headmistress out of the Great Hall and throughout the rest of the castle. Draco was surprised when they passed the third floor, as he had heard the Head dorms had been situated there on two occasions within the last decade. His curiosity was short-lived, however, as Professor McGonagall made a sharp left turn down one of the darker corridors of the fourth floor. He quickly recognised it as the way to the Restricted Section of the Library, and did a mental jig at the idea. It was juvenile, he knew, but it was just so much _cooler_ to have his _secret dorm_ be hidden in the Restricted Section as opposed to behind the portrait of the drunk monks in the Charms corridor.

McGonagall flourished her wand and moved away the rope that cordoned off the separate portion of the library. "As you will be living here, not to mention that you are both well of age, you will not need to present a signed note to enter," McGonagall mentioned without turning to face either of the two, instead focusing on the numerous shelves of books.

She illuminated the end of her wand as they neared the back, and she focused the light on the inscriptions at the end of each bookshelf. When she reached the one for which she was searching, she swiftly turned down the aisle, nearly causing Draco and Granger to bypass it due to their forward momentum. The Headmistress walked towards the windows at the other end of the bookcases, but stopped when she arrived at a gap between two separate shelves.

"Now," she began, brandishing her wand and indicating with an impatient bob of her head that they should do the same, "you will need both a password and a spell to enter your common room. Do you both recall the ancient rune Thurisaz? Oh good, well you will have to speak the name of the rune while emblazoning it onto this bookcase with your wand." She demonstrated the action, flicking her wand in three quick motions to carve the simple, p-shaped rune into the wood as she spoke the password. Almost instantly, the wood of the shelf absorbed the rune and the seams of a door began to appear near the edges of the shelf. Finally, a small, bronze handle in the shape of a phoenix emerged from the wood, and the Headmistress gestured to the pair that they should enter.

Draco reached for the handle and nearly jumped when he felt one of the wings curve around the shape of his hand. He didn't know why that detail was necessary, but as he looked down and saw the bird nip playfully at his fingers, he decided that he liked the enchantment regardless.

Pulling open the door, Draco saw that the end of the bookshelf concealed a narrow, stone staircase. After glancing down to carefully extract his hand from the phoenix's curled wing, he gradually made his way up the flight of stairs to a short landing, at the end of which lay a second door. As he neared it, Draco observed from its dark, reddish colouring and apparent weight that it was made of oak—a wood he knew worked well with protective and obscuring enchantments. He heard Granger approach from behind him, and when she could see the door clearly she gasped audibly at its splendour. It was almost like a work of art, with its incredibly intricate carvings flowing from one side of the base, along the door's rounded top, and back down to the other side of the lower edge. Delicate traces of gold filigree were woven into the markings, and they shimmered intermittently as they caught the light of the flames in the wall sconces.

Oddly, there was no doorknob, handle, or latch of any kind to be found. The ponce in him praised the maker for having the sense not to mar the beauty of the rest of the door by adding a handle, but the logician in him conceded that there wasn't much point to a door if it couldn't be opened.

McGonagall giggled—_giggled_—in the way that only elderly, slightly batty witches could manage at her students' obvious uncertainty. She gave them each a cursory glance and proceeded to place the tip of her wand at a notch where the two symmetrical sides of the design met, about a foot beneath the upper edge of the door. A silvery-blue stream of light pulsed from her wand, similar to that of an incorporeal Patronus, and it spread throughout the carvings on the door until it had filled them all.

The Headmistress removed her wand, and turned to face him and Granger. "The door has been enchanted to recognise your magical signature, along with mine and the four Heads of Houses. It is unlikely they will visit you here, especially those of the other two Houses, but they are given access in case of an emergency."

She then turned back towards the door and gave the door a firm push, which groaned deeply as it slowly swung open, revealing one of the most amazing rooms Draco had ever seen.

Growing up in the Manor, as well as having friends with estates of their own, Draco was used to opulence and grandeur, and it was not often that he was struck with awe at the sight of a room. But this room could easily top them all, because as soon as he crossed the threshold he was enveloped in a feeling of warmth, comfort, security, and wisdom.

The room itself was hendecagonal in shape, with all but four of its sides completely lined with books encased in sunken shelves. Small sconces adorned the places where one shelf met another and a scattering of candles floated above them, reminiscent of the Great Hall. One of the remaining four walls was only half-bookshelf, with the other half being taken up by a large fireplace and mantel, already lit and crackling. The door, of course, used another and the final two were not walls at all, but instead displayed a wide staircase that split off into a V-shape, which Draco guessed led the way to his and Granger's rooms. Looking up, he realised that this room must have been hidden in some small tower or spire jutting out of the castle's side, as the ceiling gradually sloped to a point and was broken up by several rectangular skylights. He could tell that, even on the brightest of days, the room would retain a certain amount of darkness, as the high ceiling and angles of the skylights would only allow a little light to reach the floor. Draco was thankful for it, because while Granger would have no doubt been used to living in a bright, airy tower, _he_ had lived under a lake for the majority of his school years, so the compromise suited him greatly.

All of the furniture in the room was made with a wood of a deep brown, but the floor and bookshelves were nearly black. On one side of the room, there was a large, ovular table and chairs, where Draco immediately envisioned Granger, sat with a million books splayed open in front of her, manically scribbling on a mile-long piece of parchment with her ink-stained fingers. Underneath the table was a beautiful Turkish rug of the traditional red and gold colouring, but had a healthy amount of olive green mixed in.

On the other side of the room, facing the fireplace, was a matching set consisting of a couch and two armchairs, all upholstered in leather that was slightly redder than the wooden furniture. On either side of the couch rested two small end tables, each bearing an oil lamp, and in front of it lay a short coffee table. Beneath the furniture laid a cream-coloured rug that looked delightfully soft and plush, and the child in Draco longed to tear off his boots and socks and wiggle his toes through the pile.

As he turned his attention back to the others in the room, Draco noticed that the Headmistress had left without him noticing. Shifting his attention to Granger, it seemed McGonagall's departure had gone undetected by her as well, as she was far too busy poring over the numerous titles above the hearth to register much else. He returned to the doorway and swung the heavy door back into place with a well-placed shove, not hard enough to slam but enough to snap Granger's attention away from her beloved tomes.

Turning slowly, the smirk so inherent to all Malfoys crept up his face. He casually leant back against the doorframe, crossed his arms lazily, and raised his head to meet Granger's gaze.

They stood like that for several moments—him with that infuriating smirk in place, her with her eyes narrowed and shoulders back, as if each challenging the other to bend first.

Then suddenly, Draco laughed a short, breathy chuckle and looked down before pushing off the door with his hips and looking at her again, his grey eyes flashing with the reflections of the flames.

"Welcome back, Granger."


End file.
